


The Blood Of Music

by Rocketman23



Series: BATIM prompt drabbles [13]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Gen, Self Harm, You Have Been Warned, just mention of blood, not really a lot of gore, please dont read this if you have depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 04:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12904362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocketman23/pseuds/Rocketman23
Summary: life is hard sometimes





	The Blood Of Music

**Author's Note:**

> there seems to be a lot of Sammy angst so i thought i'd join the party

Their words reverberate throughout his already clouded mind, yelling and crying and whispering, coiling about his body, restricting and constraining his thoughts and movements. They whisper ominous and foreboding words into his ears, voices mixing and colliding with another, trying to reign supreme. His body starts to shake and it can’t stop. He wants to ignore their hateful words, tries to tell himself they’re lying, but are they? He tries and he tries and yet it all repeats the same. A scratch of pen to paper with the hope of something new and wonderful being born from its ink. Something to be proud of. But they tell him otherwise, the pen shaking in his hand as he stop its course making a small jagged line across the crisp white paper. So small and broken and yet so alike to him. It is wrong, the notes, the rhythm, the melody, EVERYTHING. And he looks to the page and it all blurs and his breathe quakes in his lungs and _it hurts_. It hurts and it feels as though he’s suffocating. He wants it to stop.

They tell him it can, that there is a way to silence these voices, his breathe now coming in heaving gasps and his body once hunched over his desk, slowly crumpling inwards. He can make it stop. Make the pain go away but, it will deserve a sacrifice. They latch onto the thought encouraging it, feeding from it and their voices grow even stronger. his hands unclench from his arms, a cold and harrowing calm spreading through his body, the once fat blobs of tears slowing there tracks until there are just faint lines down his cheeks. Nobody has to know, nobody will even care. He looks to his sheet of music, disgusted and repulsed by its existence and rises from his chair. It is late and a sacrifice is to be made. He heads to the door, punching his ticket on his way out and fails to notice the shadow of a small creature hidden behind his office door.

The next day, as Sammy arrives for work, tired and hurt and a little regretful, he is met with none other than Bendy himself. The toon gives him a wave, smile widening a fraction and begins to natter away at him. Why Sammy has attracted his attention this morning is beyond him, the toon usually reserving his time to prank or piss Sammy off. He zones out to the toons rambling, ignoring the concerned look every now and then and continues to walk to his office. He’s about to tell bendy to go bother someone else when a distinct question of his grabs his attention.

“Why were ya all huddled up yesterday?”

“What” Sammy stops in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat and heart hammering away inside his chest. Had the little demon seen him yesterday having a panic attack?? Oh fuck. 

“Yeah, ya were all huddled up and breathing heavily” Bendy continues, not noticing the man’s distress and having a lack of knowledge, not really understanding the situation either. 

Sammy clenches his fists, what did it even matter to him anyways, the toon hated him if the notorious pranks and harsh insults were anything to go by. He grinds his teeth, says “it’s none of your business” with as much venom as he can muster and storms into his office, slamming the door behind him and leaving a confused and slightly more worried toon in his wake. 

The pain in his arm flares at the action, the bright crimson lines scored along his flesh burning with malice and discontent, reminding him of the pain, of the slow dripping of blood as it pooled from the wounds and traced its way down his arm. He remembered how his blood had shone on the metal of the night, hauntingly beautiful. The voices had dulled down now though, his head still aching with the constant vibrations they had brought but it was far better. 

He had rolled down his sleeves today, to try and hide the hideous red lines, he didn’t want to be pestered by his colleagues on the matter. Not that they would really care anyways. Sammy was normally sarcastic and crude to everyone in the studio. Today he would be no different. 

Later that day, joey stops by his office, both to inquire on how the latest music piece for the cartoon was going and to ask if he had seen Bendy anywhere. Apparently the little demon incarnate hadn’t been seen since early in the morning following Sammy to his office, strange, seeing as there had been a lack of menacing laughter and he takes note that no pipes had burst today and (thank lord) had not flooded his office with ink. Joey unfortunately asks about the sleeves on Sammy’s shirt, the fact that they were rolled down and stating how he knew Sammy hated them like that. He replies with a despondent “just trying out a new look” before continuing on with his work and leaving Joey with a quizzical hum as he too, leaves the music directors office in search of Bendy. 

Sammy doesn’t leave his office again until after everyone has had their lunch break, he really can’t be bothered to deal with people today. He spends most of the hour in the bathroom, cleaning the cuts on his arm, loosening the bandaging a little and staring at his dishevelled appearance. He notices the heavy bags under his eyes, which are slightly red and puffy, his lips straight and lacking of joy. He looks like shit. And he wonders why he did it. Why he let himself fall so far and believe all those nasty words. He focuses on his reflection and decides that it’s all true. He is nothing. He is worthless. He should die. And he hates it, hates feeling so weak and sick and wrong. He just wants it to end.

The walk back to his office is slow and troubling, his mind empty and numb, his body heavy and weary. He pushes the door to his office open with a heave, when did such a simple action take so much effort? He meanders towards his desk taking note of a piece of crudely folded paper with a (what he’d call a kids effort at art) small drawing of Bendy’s grinning signature face in the top right corner. Who the hell put this here? The note, once read (with some difficulty) reveals itself to be a letter of sorts detailing Bendy’s struggle with keeping up with and understanding human behaviourisms (he goes into great detail about eyebrows and why he doesn’t have them and how people mistake his emotions a lot). Sammy is confused at first and pissed that the toon managed to catch on but by the end of the letter, when bendy states that its ok not to know what’s happening, to be confused as to why you’re here on this planet and how scary that can be and that he understands his pain, he hurts less. But that he and everyone else in the studio is here for him, even if at times it feels like they don’t understand what he’s going through or how much it hurts, there are people right outside his office door ready and willing to help him to the best of their abilities. He doesn’t notice the tears falling from his face, a hand going to his mouth to muffle his sobs. He does, however, notice the small smile that graces his lips in forever as his eyes retrace the clumsy lettering and the small warmth of knowing someone cared enough to write him this letter, even if it was Bendy.

The next day as Sammy arrives to the studio, he heads to his office as usual, preparing for the days onslaught of ink and inner turmoil. He takes note of the studio on his travels, the smell of ink and mint ripe in the air, the bustle of people in the corridors as people prepare for their own work, he even waves at a couple of interns, waves a hello at joey and gives wally a light slap to the back as he passes him. He steps into his office, feeling renewed and strong and still oh so tired. He sits at his desk and picks up his pen but as he places tip to paper, he notices the small, unmistakeable black figure that is Bendy’s sneaking form from the corner of his vision and huffs a sigh. He rolls his sleeves up, bearing his scars to the world, the thin lines of red hidden behind the soft cotton of the bandaging but still managing to bleed their melancholy tune, were forgotten for a time. Music was his life, it was inherently a part of him, going so far as to run through his veins and course throughout his body and into the very pen he was holding, as the tip was poised above the music sheet, ready to bleed sweet music into the paper.

Everything was going to be ok.

**Author's Note:**

> will the boy ever be free of suffering???  
> if you liked this fic please a kudos and comment!


End file.
